Page 25 of The Duet

“I’m very flattered by what you just said.”

Cleo plucks the bottle of wine from the ice bucket and refills our glasses. She squares her shoulders and looks me in the eye. “When you were on the road with Kay Cooper, if she’d ever made an overture, would you have… you know?”

I take my refreshed drink into my hands. Cleo sure is excellent company—she doesn’t have a dull bone in her very shapely body. “For the record, she never did. As far as I know, Kay Cooper is straight as an arrow, but that’s not what you’re asking me.” It feels like the evening has taken a turn. “Joan and I were together since before we started the band, but I guess that’s also not what you’re asking me.” Cleo keeps her gaze trained on me. There’s still a hint of pink on her cheeks, but she seems to have a whole new handle on things. “Of course, I would have said yes.” This might not be entirely true, but it can hardly be fact-checked. “Kay Cooper is what?” I do a quick calculation in my head. “Early seventies now? But any room she walks into, she’s still the hottest woman in it. No question.”

“I must disagree with you on that.” A small smile plays on Cleo’s lips.

“You’re perfectly welcome to disagree with me.” My head is spinning, trying to decipher all the things Cleo is actually trying to say. I’m to her what Kay Cooper is to me. But just like Kay never made a pass at me, I would never make a pass at Cleo. It’s unprofessional and she’s far too young for me to have any such notions about. Yet, she’s also, if I’m reading this correctly, telling me she wouldn’t mind if I did. I don’t know whether to shut this down or to continue playing. It’s been such a long time, and I’m having fun. But I don’t want to put any ideas into Cleo’s head. Isn’t that my responsibility, as the older one?

“As long as we’re clear on that.” She sucks one lip into her mouth and slowly lets it slide out again. “You’re the hottest woman in every room I’ve ever been in.”

Especially after what has been made clear to me today by my bandmates, I’m not immune to what Cleo is putting out. All the more reason to shut this down, no matter how pleasant.

“Look, Cleo, maybe this conversation has gotten a little out of hand. I’m not going to hit on you like Billie did. You are wonderful in many ways. Truly, you are.” I hate to state the obvious, yet I don’t have much choice. “But let’s face it. I’m old enough to be your mother. I can’t go there. This tour has only just started and I don’t want to jeopardize what we have going on when we sing together. It’s too special. Too precious.”

“Fuck,” she says on a sigh. “Way to kill the mood.”

Fuck, indeed. Instead of relief, something else washes over me—something I can’t place. Regret? Frustration? Some sort of arrogant entitlement that I should definitely keep on ignoring?

“I’m sorry,” I hear myself say, which surely is not the correct sentiment to express because it’s too confusing.

“If you don’t mind—if you have nothing else extremely important to discuss with me—I think I’ll go now.” She rises. She looks so cute in her oversized jeans and top. Cleo flicks her hair back, then reaches for her bag. “I’ll be there for the soundcheck tomorrow.” She opens her bag and takes out something. “Here. I brought you this. It’s not romance, but the protagonist is hella gay.” She hands me a book.

Deflation swamps me, but what else was I meant to do? “Thanks.”

“Night.” With that, Cleo hurries out the door.

I turn the book she gave me over and look at the cover. The author is H.S. Barr and I’ve never heard of them. It looks like one of those cozy mysteries set in the idyllic British countryside. I put it next to my bed and I ponder the past hour in Cleo’s company.

My head tells me I did the right thing, but quite a few other body parts don’t necessarily agree with that.

Chapter 16

Cleo

It only takes a couple of jumbled tries with the other members of The Lady Kings—in various formations—for everyone to conclude that Lana and I singing “I Should Have Kissed You” a cappella is much more intense and satisfying than in any other arrangement.

So, that’s what we do. I go out there and sing this song with her and I’m not stupid enough to believe it’s this particular song making me feel what I feel—the lyrics telling the tale of two people who missed all their opportunities to get together—but when I’m on stage with Lana, singing these words to her, that is what I feel. The only difference is, tonight, she knows. I might have alluded to it when I had that drunk conversation with her in Oakland, my inhibitions too lowered for me to keep all of that locked inside. But last night, the veil was lifted all the way. And now, she knows how I feel about her. She knows that when I croon to her that I should have kissed her, I might very well mean it. This is no longer a mere stage act—although it never really was.

I want to kiss Lana so badly, I have to check myself. I have to make sure I don’t lose myself in this performance completely and bring my lips so close to hers that we might as well be kissing.

But this is Lana Lynch and I can’t help myself. Not during these five minutes. I’ll control myself afterward. The band is dying for an epic night on the town. We’ll go out and I’ll try to get this out of my system. But right now, when I’m standing so close to Lana I can smell her, and her body heat radiates onto me, I give it all I’ve got. I lean into her a little more than before. I let my gaze linger on hers a little longer—I even let it slide down to her cleavage and make no bones of ogling what is on display. This is why I’m here. This is what makes our duet special. And this is all I’m ever going to get from Lana. Maybe it can be enough.

But tonight, it’s as though I’ve taken some drug that makes everything more intense. There’s more unbridled energy coursing through me and there’s only one way for me to get it out. To sing my heart out to Lana with even more vigor, with more pain in my voice, with the regret of never having kissed her plastered all across my face.

On top of feeling this all-consuming, feverish emotion, Lana looks more gorgeous tonight than ever. Even though I’ve seen The Lady Kings play so many times now, I still can’t get enough of their show. I don’t want a miss a single second of it because they mean so much to me—and Lana means the most. I meant it when I said to her last night that she’s the hottest woman to have ever graced a room.

According to Tim, being the front woman of a hip band is like being a magnet for sexy ladies and he’s right—anywhere I go, I’m surrounded by hotness, but none of those people are Lana. Unfortunately, Lana, being the front woman of an iconic band herself, is totally immune to my lead singer magnetism. She sees right through it.

But not in these five minutes, which are quickly coming to an end. Too quickly. Five minutes every other day with her like this are not enough. I want so much more, especially now that she has told me, in no uncertain terms, that she can never give me what I want. Lana telling me she’s old enough to be my mother might be theoretically true, but it doesn’t help to deter me. Because Lana is nothing like my mother or any other mother I’ve ever come across. She might be fifty-four, but she’s also a Lady King and for that reason alone, her age doesn’t matter. That number is erased simply by her being who she is. Besides, rational arguments were never going to work. Not as long as we do this, as we sing to each other, in front of thousands of people who can’t get enough of it, that our lives would have been totally different if only we had kissed each other.

We’re singing into the same mic and I’m so close to Lana, the edges between us are blurred. We might as well be one body, one voice, doing this. When the song ends, I’m of half a mind to actually kiss her—it would drive the crowd all the way over the edge and I can always claim I was caught in the moment, by the song and its powerful lyrics—but I don’t, because I’m only Cleo Palmer and I can’t go around kissing Lana Lynch. I’m still self-aware enough to know that would be all kinds of wrong.

But when Lana takes my hand as she always does, I hold onto it a little tighter. We walk off stage and I prepare myself for her to drop it coldly again, only to find that she doesn’t. Instead, she holds it up between us, like evidence of something that can’t be said out loud, and says, “Can you come with me to my dressing room, please?”

“Of course.” My heart’s already beating double time.

Lana lets go of my hand. I follow her. Logan gives her water. Andy tells her how great she was. There’s lots of chatter between her and her bandmates that my brain doesn’t register because it’s too busy processing what’s going on—and trying to predict what might happen. Has she changed her mind? Did my intense rendition of that song convince her of something?

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